Out of Business
by azzami
Summary: Pestilence was interested in his bottle of beer. Low Key Lyesmith was interested in trouble. American GodsxGood Omens


American Gods and Good Omens crossover Tralala SAY LALALA,EVERYONE.passing on the word for someone

* * *

Pestilence was bored. He was _very _bored. He could die from boredom. Of course, he could not. But what woulde he give, to die now. Being out of business was terribly dull, Pollution, that new boy, had smiled dreamily at him and commented, twirling a fluffy strand of white hair around his finger, "Pesty, darling, at least you are having a good long break now, are you?"

Pestilence, to put it mildly, had wanted to give the boy tuberculosis and the black death and chlorea. What he did in reality was to cough furiously, pull out a ciggarette with shaking brown fingers, whipped out a lighter and lit it, while shuffling away from the new boy. As he walked, he had pulled his old and tough brown trench coat around his shaking shoulders, he _is _officially Out Of Business now.

He didn't know when he got the smoking habit. He suspected Czernobog had passed it to him, when he visited him once in the 20th century. Now-a-days, Pestilence, who had once raged over countless continents, swept through countries, stepped among villagers covered with scars and pocks was now reduced to hoping that whenever he coughed, the people who breathed in the germs wouldn't go to the doctor in time.

He had gotten so goddamned irritated that he had actually resorted to creating HIV. And then AIDS. Granted, it was doing rather well. Humans procreating like rabbits. But now, at least he still had some little projects to do. Like bird flu. He was going to target the Americas this time. And he was there now, sitting in a rundown bar, sipping beer. And he drank, an old man with grey hair streaked with black, an old brown trenchcoat tossed over the skinny shoulders, coughs racking his body convulsively every few seconds.

Sometime later, he sensed someone staring at him casually.

He refused to look, and in time a presence sat itself beside him, also taking long sips from a bottle of beer. Smoke and fire rushed up his nose, burning it, just for a second. To those who can smell properly, of course. A voice sounded beside him, humorless and drawling, pausing occasionally as it took long draughts from the bottle.

"What an interesting time to see you here, old man. A storm is coming, do you know?"

Pestilence looked over at the man with brilliant orange hair close cut to his skull, and he smiled. "Lyesmith, boy. I know. Didn't think it'll pop up so fast. _Especially _after the earthquake." The orange headed man shrugged his shoulders, eyes moving about the bar restlessly. He pulled another long draught from the bottle, then spun around on his chair and continued talking, eyes resting on two big men.

"There's always a time for storms." And he smiled, lips creasing with fine scars. "Wednesday, at least, that is the name he's going by, is running about, trying to herd a stream of cats into a straight line." The two big men's voices were rising with every moment. They were ugly and burly, tattoos spiraled down their thick arms.

Pestilence coughed for a moment as he spared a glance at the arguing men. Bar patrons heads were turning, ciggarettes were dangling out of mouths, hands were setting down glasses and bottles gingerly, and people were inching towards the doors. Everybody was readying for flight. "You're reduced to feeding on _this_?"

Lyesmith shrugged, a scarred smile playing on his lips. "You're not that well off, old man. What, trying to come to the Americas this time? Spreading what?" The men's voices were raised to their highest, a hand had curved around the neck of a bottle. Lyesmith drew in a long, deep breath. "Mmm, wonderful. They're smelling of beer and bloodlust."

"All the better for you." Pestilence shifted very slightly in his seat and coughed, hard. Germs flew through the air, powered by an entity as old as the first illness. Lyesmith grinned as he drummed his fingers lightly on the bartop. "Looks like you haven't lost your touch." The barmaid stood behind the counter, cherry lips in a "O" of nervousness.

And then thunder broke overhead.

Those two men were probably waiting for a dramatic entrance. Fists flew in a flurry, blood flew everywhere, a crack was heard, table and chair was upturned and bar patrons backed away, some hesitating, some running, some screaming and hiding. In the middle of this, an old man and a orange-headed man sat quietly, peacefully together, both sharing a smirk.

* * *

And...this is it. Hope you enjoyed it. 


End file.
